


Experimentation

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Wilson/House 'Verse [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Banter, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Greg House, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: House tries something new on Wilson.





	Experimentation

“So. Ditched Christmas with the wife for a cripple, huh?” House asked. He looked up from his noodles as he said it, meeting Wilson’s gaze on the chair beside the couch, and he saw the shift in Wilson’s face, the way he shut down just a little bit. House was drunk. He was aware of that, was aware of the pleasant buzz that rested between his ears. They’d bought some wine at the liquor store when they’d picked up the takeout, and it turned out a nice, cheap claret paired _well_ with Vicodin and chow mein.

“Like you said, I’m Jewish,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, and _married_ ,” House said. “What, she made a nice dinner, and you ditched… for this?”

“House,” Wilson said.

“Hey, no judgement,” House said. “Just seems weird, that’s all. Ditching your bed to sleep on my couch. I mean, if you’re gonna cheat on your wife, you might as well really _cheat_.”

“I’ve ditched important stuff for you before,” Wilson said with a roll of his eyes.

“But this isn’t _for_ me,” House said. “This is for _you_ , you jackass. Can’t use your drug addict bestie as an excuse for everything.”

“I just didn’t feel like it,” Wilson said, and House could see the tell-tale signs of the hackles rising as he leaned forward, feeling his body pleasantly separated from his motor centre, the way he swayed just a little too far forward, the way he set the box down just a little too hard down on the coffee table. “She’s stifling, House, that’s all, and sometimes I just don’t want to be alone with her.”

“Oh, but me, I’m not stifling,” House said.

“Are you _complaining_ that I want to spend time with you?”

“No,” House said, lurching slightly on his feet as he stepped forward, delicately taking the box out of Wilson’s hand and setting it on the coffee table. It looked nice outside. Dark. Cool. Not freezing cold, just… mild. Enough to be glad to be inside, and away from it. He had a thick blanket on his bed, and some stupid, knitted throw Wilson – or was it Julie? No, it was Wilson, it would have been Wilson who thought of putting something on House’s bed, who thought of House being _cold_ – had got him a few birthdays back.

“House, I was eating that,” Wilson said. To House’s mild (although not exactly surprised) curiosity, Wilson’s body language did not change as House stood between his knees, which were slightly parted where he lounged back in the chair. This was a new experiment. Not one, in fact, that he’d tried on Wilson before, which was questionable, given how long they’d been friends, but—

Well. This wasn’t just a prank, or a test of his sensibilities. This was a slightly more extreme experiment than House generally went in for, because this was a new kinda bridge to burn, a new _frontier_. The wine made it easier. The fact that Wilson was Wilson made it even easier.

“Can I _help_ you?” Wilson asked, his head tipping back, and his eyes narrow as he looks House over, as if searching him for some kind of evidence, some kind of clue, as to what he’s gonna do next, what he’s gonna say next. “What?” House looked down at him, and Wilson shifted, leaning forward slightly, and said, “House, for God’s sake, if this is one of your stupid mind games let me finish my—”

House leaned in, his head tilting to the side, and caught Wilson’s mouth under his own, leaning in between his spread knees, letting his own rest – with his weight on his good leg – on the sofa’s edge. Wilson’s mouth was hot under his own, and his body was warm, too, warm, bigger than most of the hookers House was used to, with more average proportions. Light muscle in the shoulders, a soft belly, square shoulders… Of course, there was no make-up, no perfume, either. No fishnets, although—

This was the big gamble. This was all the money on the black 33, and the wheel was spinning, spinning, spinning…

And Wilson’s mouth opened wider, letting House kiss him properly, letting House’s tongue come up against his. Their lips smacked against one another, and House didn’t let his body react when Wilson’s hands came up to touch House’s hips, touching the hem of his t-shirt where it lay over his jeans, the touch featherlight, as if he thought he’d get smacked away.

House carded a hand in his hair and tried to pull his head back, change the angle, but Wilson’s grip tightened for a second before he shoved himself forward, grabbing House either side of his neck, his thumbs dragging over House’s jaw. He kissed with sudden, desperate urgency, clashing their mouths together, and House let out a surprised noise despite himself.

They broke apart, but Wilson wouldn’t look at his face, kept his gaze in line with his neck, his shoulders, as he pushed House back by his hips toward the couch and _shoved_. House fell back, waiting for Wilson to catch his eye, but of course, of course, he wouldn’t: Wilson landed between his legs on the couch, and shoved his tongue down House’s throat.

This, House felt, was a little beyond the jackpot. The jackpot on this particular roulette wheel was Wilson kissing him back – Wilson tonguing the life out of him, pinning him back on the couch, and oh, yeah, shoving his hands up and underneath House’s t-shirt, that was more like if he’d won a separate lottery he hadn’t even entered.

House was into it.

Wilson kissed him harder, gasping into House’s mouth as House reached up to touch his hair, felt Wilson’s hands drag over his belly, his chest, grabbing him, touching him, gripping him here, then there… Wilson shifted his knees apart, and House let out a sharp noise at the brush against his right leg, forcing it wider, and Wilson leaned back.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, his eyes wide. “You okay, I didn’t hurt you?”

“I can’t do this on a couch,” House said. His voice, he was aware, was a little lower, a little more full of gravel, than usual. That was _nice_ , apparently, because Wilson shuddered. “Bed.” He saw the freeze in Wilson’s expression, the sudden hesitation, and felt the couch shift and his body go cold as Wilson scrambled back, holding his hands up like House was pointing a gun at him, the palms spread.

“Oh, no,” he said. There was a flush on his cheeks, and his lips were plump from the kissing and the arousal, his pupils dilated, his breathing a little heavy. “No, no, I can’t… _No_ , House, Christ, this was just some stupid attempt at manipulating me and I won’t—”

House stood to his feet, grabbed Wilson by his shirt collar, and pulled him into another kiss. Wilson’s protests melted as soon as House touched his _shirt_ , reaching to grab for him, one hand dragging through House’s hair and the other one gripping tightly at his hip. Talk about mixed signals.

Wilson was leaning up and into him so that he could kiss House eagerly, _bruisingly_ , and House reached blindly back for his cane, grabbing it where it leant against the couch.

“ _Bed_ ,” he repeated against Wilson’s mouth, and moved quickly through the apartment, too quickly for Wilson to stop and panic.

He could panic and walk, though.

“We can’t do this!” Wilson said, voice hysteric.

“I know, I know, we’re too young, and you’ve never taken a girl’s virginity before. Don’t worry, Jimmy, I can handle your johnny!”

“ _House_ , I—”

House turned with his hand on the bedroom door, but before he could shut Wilson up, Wilson was kissing _him_ , pushing him back against the wall and kissing House like House was his only source of oxygen, letting out breathless little noises as he shoved open the door and dragged House in after him.

House stood there, breathing evenly, and watched as Wilson grabbed and tore at his clothes, throwing off his shirt, his vest, his pants, kicking off his shoes, and once again he didn’t meet House’s gaze as he grabbed for his jeans, unbuckling his belt and throwing it across the room like it called his mom a whore.

“Arms up,” he said urgently, and House let the cane drop as he obeyed, letting Wilson pull his shirt off and then shove his jeans down, then _hiss_ and drop to his knees. Wilson’s fingers shoved clumsily up underneath the hem of his pants, unlacing House’s sneakers.

“While you’re down there—”

“Shut up!” Wilson whisper-shouted, the same way he did when House made funny jokes at the movies and he was embarrassed he wanted to laugh – indignant, but desperate, sensitive, insecure. “Shut up, don’t— Don’t _talk_.”

House swallowed, and Wilson grabbed at his hands and pulled him toward the bed, pushing him down onto his back and straddling him again, grinding their hips together, and House groaned.

“Didn’t know you were gonna _dom_ me,” House muttered, and Wilson leaned back for a second, his brow furrowing. He looked _confused_ , but then he seemed to shake it off, leaned, and sucked on the side of House’s neck. House moaned, and he felt his cock hard in his pants now, felt the stinging pain as Wilson sucked at the patch of skin, hard enough to _bruise_ , and it was way too high on the collar, way too high—

And then Wilson grabbed his dick, _squeezed_ , and House’s eyes fluttered shut.

Wilson made him come.

House hadn’t expected that. He’d expected kissing, sure, but he’d expected to have to take the guy on three dates before he put out, expected to have to work Wilson over, but instead Wilson just kept kissing him, got a handle on him, and watched him—

“I’m not,” he said, in a slow, uncertain way, “ _domming_ you.”

“No?” House asked. His head was a mess of hormones, the buzz settling nicely with the one from the wine, but when he watched Wilson move as if to shift away, he moved fast, putting his hands either side of Wilson’s hips and keeping him on the bed. “I need these off,” he said, grabbing at the waistband of Wilson’s boxer shorts.

“We shouldn’t,” Wilson said.

“Okay,” House said. “I’ll just unbutton them.”

He put his hands on the buttons, his fingers moving quick over them and pushing them down, getting a look at Wilson’s cock, at the little circumcision scar. It was a little bigger than House’s, a little thicker, a little longer, albeit minus the fashionable hood. He was still hard, his head glistening a little, and House wrapped his hand around the shaft of it, squeezing and watching Wilson’s hips twitch.

“I didn’t know,” Wilson said breathily, huskily, “that you weren’t circumcised.”

“Yeah, my mom decided a bris would be weird,” House said, and went in tongue first.

\--

Wilson, it turned out, was a post-coital _cuddler_. He wouldn’t admit to it, of course, wouldn’t reach out and touch him, but he was sleepy and slow, sprawled out in House’s bed with his head resting on House’s pillow, and when House lay next to him, he reached out to touch him, idly stroking where his thigh adjoined his hip. Occasionally, he brushed the edge of the sheet, which was haphazardly thrown over House’s thigh, over the scar. Wilson’s eyes were heavy and half-lidded, looking at House’s chest rather than at his face or, worse, at his leg.

He wanted to get closer.

House could see that in his body language, in the weird trough between the two of them in the bed, how _open_ he was… Even the way his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to ask a question, ask _the_ question.

“What,” House said, “you want to spoon?”

Wilson’s sensitivity, apparently, wasn’t so close to the surface post-coitus, either. He smiled, kinda goofily, and said, “Sure. C’mere.”

“ _No_ ,” House said, hating how he sounded when he said it, the word sharper than he meant it to be. “It’s my house. _You_ come _here_.”

Wilson did.

He slid forward on the bed, opening his arms as if to drag House against his chest, but then he seemed to reconsider it, and with the least grace possible, he climbed over House’s body, lying down on the other side and pressing his body against House’s back. His nose pressed into House’s hair, and House was aware his body was stiff as Wilson’s arm tucked loosely around his waist, his legs pressing warm against House’s.

It felt… nice. Good. He didn’t like to sleep with hookers in the room, even the high class ones were still risky, and bringing home a woman that he _wasn’t_ paying was even more dangerous… Wilson, Wilson wouldn’t do anything. Wilson would just lie here, and hold him, and be warm.

He could feel Wilson’s heartbeat, feel his even breathing.

“You always put out on the first date?” House asked, slightly hoarsely. Wilson didn’t reply.

\--

Come morning, House expected excuses. He expected Wilson to tell him he had been drunk, that it couldn’t happen again, that it was a mistake. He expected Wilson to jump straight into denial, as was Wilson’s way, when he did something impulsive or fun in the moment and moralised over it afterward.

When House woke up, Wilson was sprawled out in the bed beside him, face mashed into the pillow, on his belly, one arm shoved messily under the pillows. The other one was spread over House’s chest, his palm over the scattered black and grey hair on House’s breast, fingers splayed.

“Uh, _honey_?” House asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Wilson stirred, and his eyes very slowly opened up, his gaze landing lazily on House’s face, like a spaniel waking up from a nap.

“House,” Wilson rumbled, his voice coming from low and deep, slightly husky, and he withdrew the hand that had been on House’s chest, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “Time is it?”

“A little past six,” House said.

“Early,” Wilson complained.

“You should’ve drank more water before you went to bed.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Wilson muttered, and then he slid closer, clumsily climbing over House’s good thigh and kneeling between his legs, his head dropping heavily onto House’s chest, his nose against his sternum. “I know a good hangover cure.”

“Is it a margarita?”

Wilson’s tongue slid in a wet line down House’s belly, and House let out a sharp, sudden noise despite himself, his head falling back on the pillow, his belly jumping under the strange, ticklish touch. He stared down at Wilson’s grinning face, and then shoved his head back against the pillow when Wilson’s tongue went lower.

\--

“You have _nothing_ in your fridge,” Wilson complained. House watched Wilson’s ass as he leaned to look into the refrigerator, the way it was rounded off and soft in a way House’s wasn’t, even with how little exercise he got these days. “House, what do you _eat_?”

House kept his gaze angled downward as Wilson turned his head. “Well—” he said.

“ _House_ ,” Wilson snapped. “Get dressed, we’ll go get breakfast somewhere before work.”

House shrugged. “Okay.”

\--

He kept waiting.

They had breakfast.

Wilson talked about football, and basketball, and then decided to rail on General Hospital for a while.

“So,” House said casually, dragging his middle finger over his plate and gathering maple syrup on it. “You don’t want to talk about it? You usually want to talk about everything.”

“Talk about what?” Wilson asked.

House blinked. He blinked again. “I’m sorry, you don’t remember? Penises were in mouths, mouths were on penises—”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, taking a sip of his coffee. There was no tension in his shoulders, no uncertainty, and House felt himself fascinated, curious, as he leaned in over the table. “It’s not… different. It’s the same net effect, isn’t it? I spend my night at your place, not at home. It isn’t about… what we’ve done, or haven’t done.”

House grinned.

“You’ve been waiting for me to do that,” he said. “For a long time.”

“Shut up, House,” Wilson muttered, and looked into his coffee mug.

 


End file.
